


Yes, Minister

by Chickenpets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, But in a Slytherin Way, Daddy Kink, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Draco is a slut, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Power Imbalance, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickenpets/pseuds/Chickenpets
Summary: What were his high cheekbones and fair complexion for, if not for staying out of prison? They’d kept him safe (sort of) during the war, maybe they could keep him safe, now. Because Draco Malfoy was not meant for prison. Absolutely not.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Kingsley Shacklebolt
Comments: 37
Kudos: 199
Collections: Emergency Thirst Aid Station





	Yes, Minister

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherKit24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherKit24/gifts).



> This is for my buddy Sammy (aka Slytherkit24), because she is a good internet friend and she's having a SHIT TIME! as we all are. 
> 
> I started this a while ago to prove that I, too, could write Daddy things, but then got bogged down. Luckily, I was inspired to finish it as a gift.
> 
> I hope you get better soon, Sammy!

Draco knew how to tell when someone was looking at him. He was used to it. Men had been looking at him that way since he was thirteen years old, and had pretty much never stopped. So he could tell that the Minister was interested in him straight away, even though he was handcuffed to a chair and dressed in an unflattering prison uniform, and the Minister was presiding over the trial. He could tell. It was obvious, really, and hey, if the Minister was looking at him, maybe that was good. Maybe he could use it. Sneak into his good graces, flatter him,  _ please  _ him, and get exonerated. 

What were his high cheekbones and fair complexion for, if not for staying out of prison? They’d kept him safe (sort of) during the war, maybe they could keep him safe, now. Because Draco Malfoy was not meant for prison. Absolutely not.

He looked up at Kingsley Shacklebolt from his restraints, waiting for the Minister’s eyes to meet his before looking away, pretending to be embarrassed. Men liked that, he knew. Rookwood had liked it when he acted shy, and so had Mulciber. And before those terrible days at the manor, Theo had liked it, and so had Theo’s big brother. Theo’s big brother had liked it a lot - particularly when Draco acted like he didn’t know what he was doing. Choking even though it wasn’t that big, hiding his face while getting it from behind, that sort of thing. And now that school was over, and so was the war, Kingsley liked it, too. The Minister of Magic was just as susceptible to Draco’s cultivated blush as an eighteen year old boy had been, and thank god for that. 

Because Draco Malfoy was not meant for prison. He was meant for custom shoes, and fine spirits, and tailored dress robes, and reserved tables at high-end restaurants. He was meant for fifty-galleon haircuts, and italian pocket watches, and holidays to private villas in spain. And the Minister of Magic’s cock, of course. 

In his office, fifteen minutes after the end of his trial. 

Fifteen  _ minutes,  _ and he was stripped naked and stradling Kingsley on his leather office chair, stretched beyond all expectation - almost beyond endurance - and certainly beyond  _ pretending,  _ by the absolute treasure Minister Shakelbolt kept in his trousers. 

No Deatheater, and certainly no  _ teenage boy,  _ had ever touched the parts of Draco’s body that Kingsley was touching now. Not even  _ close. _ It was like he was inside Draco’s  _ spine. _ And sure, sometimes Draco exaggerated his pleasure and pain for the benefit of the people he let inside him. He was a pleaser, what could he say? 

But he wasn’t exaggerating now. Not even a little bit.

“Minister-” he gasped, lifting up and dropping back down as hard as he dared, his thighs already trembling and Kingsley’s broad, surprisingly soft hands wrapped around his waist. Far around it, too. His hands were proportional to the rest of him. Huge. “Oh,  _ yes. Minister-  _ Yes-” 

“Don’t call me that,” Kingsley growled back, bracing his feet to thrust up, and  _ fuck - _ Draco was not entirely sure he could take it. “Don’t call me that when you’re in my  _ lap,  _ Draco. Don’t.”

“What- what do you want me to call you?” Daco panted, trying not to whimper and failing badly, seizing the nape of Kingsley’s neck and reaching back to brace one hand on the desk behind him. The edge was digging into his hip but he didn’t care. Didn’t care if he’d even be able to walk once this was done. “Sir?” he asked, tangling his fingers into the collar of Kingsley’s ministry robes to get a better grip. “ _ Officer?  _ Daddy?” The head of Kingsley’s cock ground unforgivably against his prostate and he saw stars. No, more than stars. He saw the  _ Milky Way.  _ “Oh -  _ fuck-” _

“How about Kingsley?” the Minister countered, his voice so deep Draco could feel it in his bones. “It is my name.”

“I - like - titles,” Draco gasped, closing his eyes so this man wouldn’t see them cross.  _ “Daddy.” _

“Titles are  _ worthless,” _ Kingsley said. “You should know that by now.” He lifted Draco bodily, spilling him backwards onto his desk, crushing a stack of scrolls and sweeping an inkwell to the floor. “Say my name.  _ Say it.”  _ He pinned Draco down by the throat, his thumb and fingertips reaching nearly into Draco's hair. “Say it, Draco.”

“K-Kingsley,” Draco whined, and Merlin, he had never made a sound like that in his life. At least… not when it wasn’t fake. “Kingsley - K- oh,  _ God-”  _ Kingsley’s other hand moved to his cock where it was dripping precome onto his flat stomach, curling around it, totally engulfing it.

“Mm,” he murmured. “I like the way that sounds. Wrap your legs around my waist, darling, go on.” 

Draco did him one better, hooking one ankle over his shoulder and the other around his hip, using his legs to lift himself up and into each thrust, knocking a surprised grunt out of Kingsley’s mouth. 

“You really know your way around cock, don’t you?” the Minister asked, and thrust in hard, hitting Draco right on target, and Draco’s back arched like a bow with a squeal of excruciating pleasure. “Oh, do you like that? Slut.”

“God -  _ yes,  _ daddy,” Draco moaned, and Kingley did it again, his balls slapping against Draco’s bare skin, and Merlin, he was going to come all over himself. “Yes daddy, yes daddy,  _ yes daddy, yes-”  _

“I’m not your _daddy,_ boy,” Kingsley insisted, but Lord in Heaven, Draco couldn’t help it. Who’d he last addressed that way? Rookwood? Rookwood had _loved_ being called daddy. It made him feel like a man. Like the best Draco had ever had. And maybe he had been, back then. But he wasn’t now. Not even close. Rookwood was a fucking _toddler_ compared to Kingsley Shaklebolt. Rookwood was in Azkaban for life, and Kingsley was the bloody Minister of Magic, wasn’t he? Fuck - Kingsley Shaklebolt was a _man._ He was a _stallion._ He was - he-

_ “Daddyyy-”  _

Kingsley clapped a hand over his mouth, cutting off the word, and Draco came immediately. Shocked by it, scrabbling at Kingsley’s clothes, his entire body flexing tight around his spine, his breath stopped against Kingsley’s palm and his cry muffled into nonsense.

“Oh  _ yes, _ baby,” Kingsley rumbled, one knee knocking into the desk as his pace increased. “You take it. Take it -  _ fuck-”  _ He released Draco’s mouth and seized his shoulders, jerking him back into each thrust, and lights flashed in Draco’s vision as Kingsley’s cock battered past his prostate and what felt like right up into his fucking  _ lungs,  _ dumping an incapacitating cocktail of pain and endorphins into his bloodstream.

He screamed. 

“Fuck,  _ yes,”  _ Kingsley grunted, lifting Draco’s hips off of the desk like he was made of  _ paper, _ and Hell - Draco couldn’t take it. He  _ couldn’t take it. _ The Minister of Magic was going to split him in half, and Draco was going to DIE. He was going to be left a fucking used ragdoll, spread out on that desk, just absolutely evicerated. Or, if not that, then at the very least ruined forever for any other lover. No one on earth was going to get him off so fucking hard again, he was sure. He felt like a part of his soul had been ripped out. “That’s what you like, isn’t it?” Kingsley demanded. “Coming up here to get it over my desk with your fucking handcuffs still on. You like that cock? Do you?”

_ No? _

_ Yes? _

Draco just clutched at him, digging in his nails, trying to hide his face.

_ “Harder,  _ daddy,” he sobbed. “Fuck me. Give it to me.  _ Harder. Harder.”  _

He did not want it harder - he wasn’t even entirely sure what he was saying - but begging usually got Rookwood off, and fast, and he needed Kingsely to get off before his brain was forced out his bloody ears, so that was what came out of him. 

Begging. 

_ “Harder, _ daddy -  _ Please, _ daddy - Harder - Give it to me - pl-” Two thick fingers pushed into his mouth, deep, almost making him gag, and he sucked desperately at them, abruptly swept right past any remaining capacity to calculate. Kingsely was not Rookwood, and he wasn’t Theo, or Theo’s brother. Obviously. And Kingsley was going to fuck him until  _ Kingsley  _ decided  _ Kingsely  _ was done. 

“You want to come again, baby? Look at that hard little prick. You must have been aching for it in your cell with no one to fill that pretty hole of yours.”

Sweet fucking Salazar, was he already hard? _ Again? _

He was, and he knew he was, when Kingsley’s fingers withdrew from his mouth and wrapped back around his cock, slick with come and spit. It was messy, and wet, and a drop of sweat fell from the tip of Kinglsey’s nose onto his chest, and that was disgusting, and degrading, and Draco came again. Yes he did. 

And somehow,  _ that _ was what Kingsley wanted to see, which would have been surprising - at least compared to the others - if Draco’d had even a single centimeter of space left in his body for anything so substantial as a thought. As it was, he registered only an abrupt emptiness, and a series of short, guttural moans, and then a warm streak across his belly and chest, and he must have blacked out, because the next thing he was aware of was the wet rasp of a cloth between his legs.

He murmured and shifted, trying to lift his head, but before he could manage it, a weight pressed down on his chest, holding him still. But it wasn’t oppressive. He could breathe fine, and really, it felt kind of nice. Like he wasn’t unmoored from reality and floating free in the cosmos.

“Mm?” he asked. 

“Just cleaning up,” Kingsley answered. “Might have warned me you were a fainter, though.”

“‘M not,” Draco muttered. “Never… fainted before.” His head lolled to the side.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Kingsley chuckled, swiping the cloth up over his stomach towards his ribs, folding it to a freshly warmed side, and then swiping back down. Wiping  _ come  _ off of him. 

How humiliating.

He should get up.

“...cleaning charm?” he slurred, arching a little into the fingertips that skated down his damp skin from his collarbone to his navel.

“I prefer to do it this way.” Kingsley’s hand stroked down the tender inside of his thigh, gently lifting his leg for better access, and Draco shivered, feeling drugged.

“Yes, daddy.” It came out without premeditation, and he tried to care, but just… didn’t. And Kingsley didn’t reprimand him, or mock him, or call him a slut, even though he obviously was one. Instead, Kingsley set the cloth aside and brushed Draco’s hair back from his forehead, the pad of his thumb tracing the tiny sectumsempra scar Snape hadn’t been able to get off of his face. It bisected his eyebrow, and usually Draco didn’t like anyone touching it, but… 

“How old are you, Draco?” Kingsley asked.

“Eighteen,” Draco answered with a sigh, turning his cheek into Kingsley’s palm.

“Since when?” 

“...Friday.”

Another chuckle. A rich, dark, affectionate sound, with just a touch of irony. “My, I’m in such trouble.”

  
  



End file.
